Ignis
by smilebot
Summary: For an anon in the AC kink meme !o! FedericoxEzio, non-con!VierixEzio: Vieri, especially humiliated after another loss to Federico, decides to destroy Ezio as his ultimate revenge. Two birds with one stone. There is no better way.
1. Chapter 1

"_Oh_: You are _awake_?"

Ezio widened his eyes as Federico strode into their home with blood all over his attire, dropping the sketches onto the table before he rose to fathom the scene. In deep concern, he looked at every expanse of open flesh he could perceive and slid his fingers down the shaven face, his anxiety tangible, even as the other laughed like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar and gingerly latched onto his wrists. He furrowed his brow when no wound seemed to be visible, other than sighing in relief: If the other man did not give him that childish pout that made him weak in the knees, he would have surely beat him himself for subjecting him to such apprehension.

"_Che cosa __è__ successo_?" said being worriedly started, unable to be appeased by a mere kiss on his forehead. "W-Why is there _blood_ on your clothes? Are you not hurt? _Quando_?"

Federico raked his hand through his hair. "It is nothing—just a foolish brawl."

"That has you looking as if a graveyard laid claim to you?"

"_Seriamente_: Nothing serious has happened." A pause. "Well, the guards _did_ join in the latter portion of the event."

Frowning, Ezio stepped back and narrowed his eyes, avoiding the hug that the taller sibling wished for; it would have been comical, the disapproving mother hen expression that buzzed about him, if Federico did not have copious amounts of other people's blood on his clothes as he stood without an ounce of panic. "I am not laughing, _idiota_. Do you know what _time_ it is?"

"Aye, it is …" The old grandfather clock chimed three, right when he cursed under his breath as he received the revelation. "_Three_."

" … I am going to bed." The younger male turned on his heel and quickly walked to the stairs, stopping when he was pulled back into his counterpart's chest. "_Smettila_—I am tired."

"_Mi dispiace_, _mi amore_."

Ezio whirled around. "You _damn well_ should be, Federico Auditore da Firenze!"

No matter how furious he appeared to be, he did not wrestle out of the arms that enveloped him, along with the hot kisses that were placed on the angle of his jaw; he did not mind the blood that was now imprinted onto his own garments, and as his brother delivered the last embrace on his ear, he curled his fingers into the silk of his shirt and stood in silence, the tension relieved to a slight degree. Agitatedly, he protested against having his head tucked under Federico's chin, but lost, especially when those puppy eyes that he swore he was immune to tugged at him, in a way he dared not voice aloud.

The ring on his middle finger was hot as Federico rubbed it.

"You do my sanity no justice."

"As do you."

"So, you had better tell me, at least, _who_ you were fighting with." The brunet slanted his gaze when the latter uneasily rubbed at his neck. "And I know it was not simply _one person_." Skepticism. "_Merda_: You might as well have been fighting an entire horde of _mercenari_!"

"_Ehi_—you make me look bad."

"_Federico_."

"_Che_?" his companion laughed, holding his hands up in mock surrender. "Come, now: That look drives me mad."

"Then, hurry your tongue and spill the truth; our bed is cold because of this ridiculousness."

"I guess I have it no other way."

Federico hummed lightly to himself as he tugged Ezio up the stairs, his demeanor playfully hurting while the door creaked open to display the expanse of their canopied bed. He winced as the sharp glare manifested the environment, faintly grinning, nodding his head to show that his stalling was nearly over, with the fingers that loosened the ties of his stained shirt. With a sigh, he shucked his boots and rid himself of his clothing, leaving only his breeches to hang low on his hips, and padded over to the washbasin full of rosewater, the time to rinse his hands short. Three stubby candles to his side were all the testimony needed to prove that the other man did indeed wait long into the night before he took his place in the waiting room—not to mention, the sheets radiated nothing but coldness in the freezing winter air that calmed the heat of his skin. It was without a doubt that Ezio had the overwhelming amount of jurisdiction to flay his ass for a midnight scuffle.

However, it was a scuffle that Federico interpreted into something much more—there was no guilt in his eyes as he felt his stubble scrape the pads of his fingers. "One little Pazzi _ucello_ wished to be a clawed kitten—decided to get feisty with his army of _bastardi_ to be there at his beck and call."

Ezio grit his teeth. "_Federico_, you cannot mean to tell me that you fought _Vieri_."

"It is more like _running_, on his part, after he threw a shoe at me and missed." A chuckle. "Then, we had the party with all the available brutes—"

"_Aye_: _Basta_." Though a reprimand flashed in the former's gaze, he could not be victorious over a miniscule quirk of his lips that widened at the mere thought of the coward running with his tail between his legs; Federico caught onto the action, his senses quick, and chortled as he pressed the other's forehead against his bare chest, loosening the tie that set his hair free, to feel the strands slip through his fingers. He shook his head in exasperation, not after he pinched the curve of a lean hip as punishment. "You need to stop causing trouble."

"_Si_: _Non avere dubbi_, _maestro_."

Slight silence. "In utmost sincerity, _Federico_." Ezio raised his chin, just as the older being's arms slipped around his waist in pleasure. "That _pezza de merda_ does not even have the balls to lift a sword, but he is a Pazzi." Leveling his stare, he gripped warm shoulders and pressed his thumbs into the curves, the steady flow of cognizance allowing sagacity to bleed through his eyes. "And you of all should know what a man of power can do … what he would _want_ to do—"

"_Mi dispiace_—I should have kept my distance," Federico murmured. "But, now, all is well; he asked for a beating all this while, and I am sure that the entire court snickers at the rawness of his backside."

"_Aye_! You _vile man_!" The solemnity dissipated at the higher level of incredulity. "Wipe that mischief off of your face!"

Deviance. "_Make me_."

"Do you _dare_ test an _Auditore_?"

Federico grinned.

"I think I do that everyday."


	2. Chapter 2

Ezio sighed as he ungracefully plopped down onto Leonardo's bed, recalling today's events. Federico had gone to work, early in the morning, though the former had to threaten him with no contact in order to get him out of the house, and Ezio had taught his fencing class, ran errands for Uncle Mario, and secretly visited Cristina with the books she craved to read. Afterwards, he had run into Paola, who restrained him and—Lord, if he thought that he knew all the pleasures of the flesh, he was mistaken—taught the fine arts of further pleasuring a man in bed, which led him to cross Leonardo's path.

He did not want to know _why_ the blond was there, but he did end up having a stomach that was about to burst, courtesy of the latter treating him to copious amounts of food at his abode.

And that was how he ended up on the plush mattress, nearly dozing away.

If it wasn't for a strange shuffling.

Frowning, the brunet rose and raked his fingers through his hair when acuteness rang out, padding over to the door, with his breeches loose and his shirt open. That noise was strange, as if two pieces of cloth were noisily rubbed together—Leonardo had assured him that he was to have no visitors today, right after he bade him farewell and scudded over to the carriage that would have taken him back to court, and Ezio was sure that he had bolted the door; perhaps, he agitatedly thought, it was a robber? But who would rob an artist, of all people? And Ezio was already acquainted with almost all of the thieves in Firenze, especially after La Volpe introduced each and every one, a glimmer of pride shining in his eyes, like his band was his own children. Not to mention, Leonardo did not seem to have anything of great value, aside from his paintings, sketches, and notebooks.

Ezio furrowed his brow.

_Notebooks_.

Was it another attempt to frame his friend?

The remembrance of his companion heavily explaining the unwanted visitors coerced Ezio to push the bedroom door open and look out into the expanse of the cluttered workshop. Narrowing his eyes, he attempted to scan for the cause of the noise, and when he found nothing, he shook his head and turned to go back. That French wine Federico made him drink yesterday must have been pressed too early or treated sans care—either that, or he was going paranoid from the less than innocent questions of his eager pupils, in terms of his womanizing reputation and _techniques_ of utmost professionalism.

But something in the corner had him tracing his steps.

One, two, three, four, eight, ten, fifteen—_strange_; the notebooks were all there, nicely bundled up, the words confusingly written backwards, just like Leonardo liked them to be. Yet, something was amiss: Did his _amico _not close them before he left? And he was sure that number seven was on top of the fourteenth one, the order invariably based on art, then science, then philosophy. Then, there was the fact that one of them was open on the table …

A journal.

Leonardo's journal.

The one that poked fun at the Auditore.

An amused chuckle left his lips, contradicting the mystery. He remembered reading this and even putting his own inputs at Leonardo's flutter-brained comments about the Auditore; the latter had initially balked at the discovery, and tried to make amends for writing about Ezio's "perfect" physique and how he would get cross-eyed when Federico would laugh, and told him that he was going to eradicate it. But he had simply found this funny, and it was one of the few things that reminded him of his _famiglia_.

_Famiglia_—father, mother, brother, sister.

_Dio_.

Now, he hastily clenched his fists, was not the time to blur into the past.

He barely pushed past the lump in his throat as he caught a clue.

Stilling, he slanted his gaze. All that he perceived was that they were wrinkled—the edges of the pages, as if one was in great haste to find specific pieces of information under a time limit; while Leonardo buzzed from place to place, digging through his disorganized piles for a sketch or two, he was more than a bit intimidating when it came to he state of his notebooks: like his own damn _bambini_, as he called it, not even a tiny fold was evident in the old manuscripts, those dating back to the times where Ezio would never let go of Federico's hand, afraid that monsters would leap out from under his bed. But now, seeing as the papers were roughly handled …

Someone had come into the workshop.

Someone had _broken in_.

And someone had gotten away with it.

Ezio massaged his temple. _Impossible_. Maybe eating all that food was making him delirious.

_Si_, that had to be it.

But he could not shake off the feeling of being watched.


	3. Chapter 3

Three days had passed since the strange event, with Ezio telling Leonardo to lock all the doors and windows, and _check_ to see if they were in that state, before he ever left his abode, and he found himself idling away while Federico ran to and fro from their villa to court. He had pushed the unwanted scenario into the recesses of his mind, and it was gratifying to realize that it did not bother him as much as it had the first day. To be completely honest, he had been surprised that Leonardo did not have a cardiac arrest at the slightly disheveled state of his notebooks, seeming to simply frown before he fluttered about, painting small birds and trees; home invasions were things that he never took lightly, even if he was tied down to teaching three fencing classes in a single day and had errands that put a mountain to shame.

And even if there was one _very_ distracting man.

At that thought, Ezio flushed. _Merda_, he must have looked dumber than a fool as he unnecessarily tidied the same pile of Federico's accounting books on the corner of the desk, biting his bottom lip, like he could tear his eyes away from the bedroom door that beckoned him—but it was hard to think of anything else when he had practiced Paola's techniques on the older male yesterday, the bed dipping with his movements as he slid his hands lower and lower, pleasured by the approving heat that radiated greatly sans restraint …

He grit his teeth.

This would _not_ do.

Sighing, Ezio closed the office door—wishing he could forget a faint breeze that sounded like a particular male's laughter—and descended the stairs, barely fighting the urge to go back into the covers and sleep the entire day away; his schedule was not as full as the one a fortnight ago, with five time slots allotted for fencing, and three hours saved for playing with Maestro Lorenzo's little nieces and nephews, yet his exhaustion was all the more pronounced, due to _someone_'_s_ incessant craving of the flesh. And he was expected to be at the marketplace within the next half hour.

So much for his midmorning respite, he tiredly thought, bidding his servants farewell as he strode past the wrought iron gates that were open for him. He felt busier than ever, more so than the time he was forcibly tutored by a bland man with bland words and a bland disposition.

Tying his hair up with his hair ribbon, Ezio took his place in traffic: He found the buzz of the thickening crowds comforting without having to adjust his senses, his mood light, deciding to simply move with the mass, instead of bounding onto the top of the roof where the security was more amusing than provocative. The chatter bled into his pores as he strode leisurely though the square—more often than he liked, or, at least, would have liked in his years before Federico secured him, knowing courtesans cozened him as grandly as the peddlers to his left and right, past the condescending monks, the couriers, the brief flashes of those from the Orient lighting a small flicker of interest in the eyes of the plebeians. Ezio followed a laughing group of children into his destination and allowed his shoulders to relax, right after he flipped an unfortunate soul a florin.

That is, until something did not feel right.

Looking about sharply, he slowed down his breathing and clutched the bag of mock swords closer to his chest, acuteness pushing his spine into rigidity. The congregation and its attributes were now faint to him as he sought out the flaw, but he could not find the cause of his wariness, even through the concentration; he could feel the change in the air—slight, yes, yet he could perceive the sensation of being tailed relentlessly without having to catch the obvious, and intuition had always come naturally to him. This scenario was one he felt he had gone through.

And over by the stall of incense, a black blur fell rapidly.

Ezio stilled; whatever had been following him—he was sure that someone, or _something_, was truly behind the scene—must have noticed that he had been caught, and had taken no time to consider before it fled into the shadows. By the time he scudded over to the loud merchant's area, no one of suspicion remained.

Except for the object.

Frowning, he picked up the item and quickly comprehended that it was a hat—smooth, untarnished, stitched seamlessly to match the high quality of the dyed silk that gleamed under his fingertips; if his deductions were correct, the perpetrator had to have been very wealthy, or had robbed one of great influence, and had to have dropped it in order to get away without giving up its identity. And it could have been _anyone_ in this square: The poor and the rich were all a homogenous mixture in this open plaza, and there was invariably the possibility of the stalker already gone from this expanse.

Ezio shakily pushed the hat into his bag and exhaled.

But he still felt that blinding pressure at the back of his head …


	4. Chapter 4

Ezio blankly looked at his hands: They were much too pale and useless, with the clock striking nine, and Federico working late into the night.

It had been a while since the incident in the marketplace, but the series of strange events that occurred after it only strengthened his plight. He did not dare to tell Federico of his dilemma, because the other looked a tad more than stressed lately, and he wished to abate the tension in those shoulders, not add to it, as hard as it was. Every often, pulling a little kiss, the older man had poked at the crease in his brow, asking him what the matter was, how he looked a bit off, no longer chiding the cook for her mystery lasagna, and instead, eating it sans complaint. There was nothing else to say to those words, into the eyes that seemed to know everything without him having to voice it—but whatever slip he made, Federico did not speak of them, and in a way, there was a truce of silence.

_Merda_, he cursed, sinking back further into the tub. What had caused this chain, he did not know; all he wanted was peace, peace that seemed to slowly blossom, even after what had happened after that day of death …

He tersely sat up once more, and shivered, despite the heat that enveloped him. If he had thought that he was paranoid, just after the initial stalking, then he erred: For, hugging his knees to his chest, hot water teasing the back of his neck, his wariness had increased tenfold, which had led him to bathe in the spare closet, next to the ancient armoire, amidst the questioning states of his servants. He could not help it, however, the nervous switching of his eyes; that enigma of a predator had appeared here and there, even in the most secure places, including the master bedroom, the main office, even in the canopied gardens that were ornamentally grand, to the right of the kitchens. As careful as he was, though, it did not matter—and he felt as if the perpetrator left signs of evidence on purpose, the way those menacing, thick snakes slowly wound around its prey, in the sweetest succor of obtaining a catch.

Or whatever intention it had.

Tightly, he curled again, like the tub had meant to swallow him whole; how he wished to freely move about, to visit Leonardo and sneak into Federico's place in the Medici bank, uncaring of a penetrating gaze. Respite was an offer he solemnly chose—lest he desired the stalker to snag him in his sleep, the nights that Federico did not comprehend, his attention was fixed on the wide doors and windows, noting each and every flutter of the curtain and the creaking of hinges. He barely realized that his skin was now wrinkling, due to the water. The oath he darkly muttered seemed to mock him as he uneasily stood, and the towel felt rough and unforgiving in his hands.

Gritting his teeth, he stepped out of his bath and allowed the cold tiles to meet his feet.

Until they were swept out under him.

Whatever, or _whoever_, grabbed him, it was maddeningly quick, and the grip around his waist was unrelenting. Ezio hoarsely gasped as he was hoisted roughly over the—it was a man, a_ monster_!—hard shoulder, the cold wind assaulting his wet form, his face contorted in pain as a gloved hand held greedily onto the back of his thighs sans mercy.

By the time he regained his senses, the darkly clothed figure pushed past the open door and stormed out into the hall, rousing servants, and the like, with every clunk of his heavy boots. A bit of hope stirred in him when he saw the servants come out from their duties, but he could not suppress a cry of betrayal when they simply bowed to his offender and took off their plain garbs, revealing the same kind of attire their true master had on. Not even a sliver of remorse or sympathy lingered in their poses, and Ezio tried all the more to break free of the deathly hold.

The silence was too loud, much too overbearing when he gasped at the punishing slap to his buttocks, rendering him momentarily paralyzed.

And the blow to his head negated all thoughts as the night took hold.


End file.
